


Nor Custom Stale His Infinite Variety

by Poetry



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: First Time, Fluff, Footnotes, Humor, M/M, Making an Effort (Good Omens), Non-Human Genitalia, Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sexual Experimentation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-05-31 03:03:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19417162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poetry/pseuds/Poetry
Summary: When Aziraphale finally decides to make an effort for Crowley, he is suddenly faced with a world of possibilities for whatsortof effort he wants to make.





	Nor Custom Stale His Infinite Variety

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt on the Good Omens kink meme: "Turns out Aziraphale has been walking around for (however long you feel like having it be before they attempt sex for the first time) with nothing at all in his pants. Now he wants some equipment, but he's not attached to any particular style, configuration, species, or size. Experiments are required in order for him to choose a default."
> 
> Thank you to @ts-porter, @reconditarmonia, and @augustales for turning this quick kink meme prompt fill into a proper fic.
> 
> I have read the book and watched the TV series, and this fic samples gleefully from both canons.

Crowley and Aziraphale have been kissing for the last six hours.

They don’t need to eat or drink or sleep or even come up for breath. They started not long after the shop closed, so there are no obligations – earthly, heavenly, or hellish – to call them away. They started kissing across a table set with afternoon tea, then side by side on the couch, until Crowley hauled Aziraphale up by his coat lapels and pressed him into the one wall of his flat not occupied by bookshelves.

Now, grinding his thigh between Aziraphale's thighs for emphasis, Crowley complains, "You don't half know how to make a demon feel wanted around here. How are you still soft? I feel just about ready to miracle my jeans into the cosmic void."

"Oh!" says Aziraphale, detaching his mouth from Crowley's neck. "Did you want to do – you know – with genitals and everything?"

Crowley rests his forehead against Aziraphale's and growls in frustration. "What did you think I shoved you against this wall for?"

"Well, for kissing, of course," Aziraphale says, punctuating his statement with an ellipsis of kisses to Crowley's collarbone that make him brace against the wall for support. "I do love kissing."

"How – " More kiss-punctuation to his throat and jaw, quite possibly an interrobang. "How do you know?" He doesn't give away his jealousy, not at all. 

"You know how much I like the gavotte. The gavotte is a kissing dance, didn't you know?" Aziraphale looks up at Crowley so innocently, as if it wasn't a world-shattering revelation that he had been kissing _gentlemen_ at a _club_. Far too much of Crowley’s thoughts must show in his face, because Aziraphale leans his forehead against Crowley’s shoulder and shakes with laughter.

“I’ll show _you_ a kissing dance,” Crowley mutters darkly. He slithers his hand into Aziraphale's trousers and pants, determined to go where no gentleman of the Oscar Wilde set had gone before, only to find – "Is this _silicone_?" 

Aziraphale makes that pained little expression that means Crowley has found exactly the right place to prod at him – his relationship to his corporeal form, or somewhere just above his right hip, take your pick. "You know how much effort it takes to make a real one, and the tailoring on my suits just doesn't fall properly without it, so... I cheated."

“It’s just one little miracle.” Crowley weighs the silicone packer in his hand. “Or not so little, if you prefer.”

“I know Hell doesn’t set a miracle quota, but Heaven expects some angelic self-restraint. I can’t faff about using up all my miracles on _genitals_.”

Crowley grabs the silicone packer and flings it over his shoulder without looking. Aziraphale jerks forward as if to go pick it up, but Crowley holds him against the wall and says, "Angel, I want to make love to you. With genitals and everything. I’ll take care of any miracles you use up. So tell me. Am I worth the effort or not?"

Aziraphale's reaction to the phrase _make love_ is much like that of an aroused human to hearing the word _fuck_ [1]. His eyes widen, his mouth falls open, and he does one of those damnedly adorable wiggles of his, which it turns out are even better when Crowley can feel them all over his front. " _Any_ miracles I need done?"

“Anything you want,” Crowley promises, and he can just tell from that ray-of-sunshine innocence on Aziraphale’s face that he’s going to make Crowley miracle up a kitten for an orphan or something equally humiliating for a discerning servant of darkness such as himself. 

Then Aziraphale’s face lights up in a familiar way that Crowley can't quite put his finger on. "Oh! But I've read about so many possibilities, and they all seem so interesting! What should I choose?"

And then Crowley places it: it's the face Aziraphale makes when he's looking at a menu, and all the options on it are, in his words, "scrummy."

So Crowley brings his mouth to Aziraphale's ear and says, "Why don't we order a tasting menu?"

Aziraphale responds with enthusiasm, and Crowley miracles away their clothes[2] and spreads him out on the bed, the only buffet Crowley will ever hunger for. Before Aziraphale can try manifesting any genitals, Crowley gets thoroughly distracted by Aziraphale showing off his experienced gentleman-kissing, and introducing Crowley to the fresh delight of _naked_ wiggles all along his front.

The angel reaches down for Crowley's cock[3] well, _angelically_ , holding it with the sort of reverence for God's creation he had only seen previously when the gardener rhapsodized to Warlock about the wonders of Brother Snail[4]. "This is lovely," Aziraphale said, in the same tone as if he were sampling a Chateau Lafite. "I could just make a copy, but what's the point of the world if we 'stale its infinite variety'?"

Crowley smiles lazily and swivels his hips, moving his cock in Aziraphale's soft hand. "Oh, naturally,” he gasps, which makes Aziraphale’s smile turn proprietary, the secret little _bastard_. “We can't have that."

"You're a snake," Aziraphale says, as if he were realizing it for the first time. "I could be a little bit snakelike. Wouldn't that be exciting?" He scrunches up his face and strains, and two smooth hemipenes emerge from a scaly white patch grown between his legs.

Crowley looks down and imagines the Aziraphale-snake that would go with them: snow white, with pinkish eyes and a beautiful pale tan marble, twining all around his own black scales in an endless ouroboros embrace. The thought is very appealing, but – "It just doesn't feel right unless you go snake all over. We can do that next time, eh?"

Aziraphale brightens when he says _next time_ , which sends Crowley reeling at his own audacity at bringing it up, he hadn't even meant to, but it made Aziraphale happy, so it had to be alright. "All right! Let's try..." He scrunches his face up again. A strange perspective shift happens between his legs, like staring into one of those Magic Eye prints until the random squiggles turn into a 3-D image of a cow jumping over the moon. Except instead of an improbable bovine astronaut, there’s now there's a rather out-of-proportion human cunt where the hemipenes had been, large enough to take Crowley's hand all at once without any special preparations. 

As soon as Crowley thinks it, his hand moves up Aziraphale's soft thigh. "Haven't you ever seen one of these in person? It isn't usually so big."

"Of course I've seen them, who do you think told Adam how to deliver a baby?" Aziraphale says snippily, wiggling his arse encouragingly. "We're doing this the human way, aren't we? I thought humans liked disproportionately large genitals."

"I mean – yes, but – " Crowley tries to think of a way to explain how Aziraphale missed the point, but then the angel all but grinds his absurdly large cunt down against Crowley’s hand, and he succumbs to his nature and gives into temptation. He was right – Aziraphale's cunt very nearly draws his hand in. Crowley is _inside_ him, making him squirm and sigh and _leak_ angelic juices all down Crowley’s wrist. For the first time, Crowley understands Aziraphale's insatiable need to taste things. He moans, leans down, and laps him right up. He tastes like sweet, juicy, forbidden apples, good enough to make any fall from grace worth it. His tongue grows, forks, fills with a snake's sense of taste-smell. And to think Crowley thought he knew what Aziraphale smelled like, when there’s a whole new wealth of smells here to take in, better than any cologne his barber might have suggested. 

Aziraphale squeezes his hand possessively around the corner of Crowley’s furiously working mouth. “That’s lovely, my dear, but you _do_ realize you’re skipping the really nice bit.” His voice goes teasing. “Haven’t you ever seen a clitoris in person?”

“Of course I have[5]!” says Crowley, indignant, knowing that the angel is baiting him and rising to the bait anyway. His clitoris is hard to miss, oversized in proportion to everything else. He works it between the thumb and forefinger that aren’t busy inside Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale's thighs tighten around Crowley's head, smothering, which Crowley doesn’t mind, because he’s finally losing some of his blessed smugness and wringing all the pleasure he can out of Crowley, like when he scrapes every last bit of food off his plate with the side of his fork. Crowley insinuates the forked tip of his tongue under the hood of Aziraphale’s clit, and he comes in a rush like forbidden fruit and stolen communion wine, illicit and irresistible. "Delicious," Crowley sighs into the lushness of Aziraphale's hip, then kisses his way back up to his mouth, lining up their bodies to press skin-to-skin, from their foreheads to their tangled feet.

Aziraphale's eyes are hungry, the way they'd been, for a few blindingly beautiful seconds, when he'd first seen Crowley dressed like a Jacobin in his French jail cell. He presses up into Crowley's cock, wetting it a little. "I've been terribly remiss, haven't I? You're always across the table watching while I get my share."

"I like watching you get what you want," Crowley admits. Then he flickers out his snake-tongue and licks off his entire slick lower face. "Besides, I'd say I ate my fill."

"A demon denying himself pleasure," Aziraphale chuckles, sliding his hands down Crowley's back to grab a double handful of his arse. "I never thought I'd see the day. You know, in 1815, I managed to get a copy of a very interesting publication from Japan. The illustrations were so beautiful and imaginative..." He scrunches his face up, and Crowley is grateful he isn’t watching when Aziraphale’s giant cunt perspective-shifts like an Escher painting into something slick and cool and _everywhere_ – writhing against Crowley's cock, wrapping around his balls, spreading his thighs apart. Crowley looks down and gasps at the sight of eight pale pink tentacles, properly sized to the giant Pacific octopus that make up Aziraphale’s beloved tako sashimi, reaching up from under his belly.

Aziraphale smiles up at him beatifically – and perhaps just a little ferociously, the bright edge of the flaming sword. "This isn't just my tasting menu, Crowley. This time, we're both having a sampling."

Crowley levers up to straddle Aziraphale’s hips and the increasingly confusing profusion between them, one knee on either side. He chases a tentacle tip with his mouth, because it turns out he does have an appetite, and it's for Aziraphale's taste. Now it's crisp and a little salty. Aziraphale gives a rich little laugh, rating Crowley's mouth somewhere around a clever innuendo in a Sondheim musical, or an amusingly inaccurate statue of a saint. The other tentacles are holding his legs apart, twining around his cock, reaching up inside, and stroking his waist with unmistakable fondness. Crowley doubts Japanese woodcuts ever depicted tentacles making such tender love. Aziraphale smiles and says oh-so-sweetly, “It’s so _nice_ of you to hold so still for me.”

“ _I’m not nice_ ,” Crowley growls with a voice that comes out of the abyss between atoms, so he can suck harder on the tentacle in his mouth without interruption, and just an edge of teeth. He makes a grab for the tentacle at his waist, but it just curls all the way around, holding him firmly in place. 

“ _So_ very nice and sweet,” Aziraphale croons, and starts moving the tentacle inside Crowley in the targeted sort of way that only a prehensile limb can achieve. Crowley moans around the tentacle in his mouth and decides Aziraphale can insult him however he likes as long as he keeps doing _that_.

 _So this is what it's like to be surrounded by heavenly love,_ Crowley thinks giddily. It's been so long he almost forgot. He dimly recalls that God's love was distinctly un-tentacle-like, but he has no complaints about Aziraphale's interpretation. It does about twelve things to his insides at once, like most things Aziraphale does, and he comes messily all over the angel's belly, soiling him with demonic effluvia.

Aziraphale reaches down, trails his fingers in the demonic effluvia, and delicately tastes it with a hum of appreciation. Crowley immediately overloads and comes again. Aziraphale sighs fondly and retracts the tentacles, leaving himself Ken doll smooth again.

"So," Crowley gasps, squished down on top of him. "Which one are you going to go with, then?"

"I think I prefer silicone in my trousers when we're not making love," Aziraphale says, petting his hair. "I don't know how you go around with those delicate dangly bits all the time. It's always seemed like a potential hazard to me.”

Crowley snorts. “What are _you_ doing that would put your delicate bits in harm’s way?”

“Nothing like driving a hundred miles an hour in a flaming Bentley, I’m sure, but some of us like to take a _little_ care,” says Aziraphale primly. “Besides, I shouldn't like to pick a favorite when I've only sampled a few items on the menu."

"I suppose we'll have to sample it again, then, won't we?" Crowley says into the crook of Aziraphale's neck.

“Well, then. If you say so, I suppose we must,” Aziraphale says, as satisfied as the cat with the cream, and Crowley realizes he’s played himself right into Aziraphale’s plans, from the beginning. 

“Of course,” Crowley says. “This was all my idea. The big bad demon tempted you into it.”

Aziraphale taps him on the nose. “Which is precisely what you shall say if Hell should take you to task for our association. They’ll be obliged to give you a commendation.”

“And if Heaven comes knocking again?” 

“I’ll tell them I’m redeeming you with the grace of unconditional love,” Aziraphale says. “Which I won’t get a commendation for. But I’ll say it anyway, because I’m through with lies.”

**Author's Note:**

> 1In Crowley’s experience, anyway, which despite the demonic reputation he tries to put about, is mostly limited to going around to sex parties and unscrewing the lids on lubricant bottles to dry them out. He ruined a lot of hotly anticipated orgies in Athens that way. [return to text]
> 
> 2 Not into the void, but into neatly folded stacks atop the dresser, a fact that Crowley needs to point out to Aziraphale's satisfaction before he’s willing to continue with the proceedings. [ return to text ]
> 
> 3 Which he makes the effort to manifest in any era with a penchant for tight clothing, as he finds he can reliably tempt humans into sinful thoughts just by fashioning himself a cock and existing in hose, leather pants, or whatever the trend du jour might be. [return to text]
> 
> 4 Though Crowley isn’t sure it was very angelic of Aziraphale to impose gender on “Brother Snail” and “Sister Slug” when both animals were hermaphrodites. Then again, a being such as Crowley is rather ill-equipped to know anything about gender, when he mostly fits himself to the human idea of “male” out of convenience. [return to text]
> 
> 5 Crowley ruins the lesbian sex parties by spreading rumors that Marianne’s ex moved in with Tracy’s ex, and now they’re roommates with Lisette and Kara, who broke Theresa’s heart and is insufficiently politically radical. [return to text]


End file.
